“Oh--he--never mind--he's gone, now.” “Who's gone?” persisted the Countess. “What kinds of cake do you think we ought to have?” asked the Little Doctor, diplomatically. The Countess sank to her knees and dipped a handful of amber, jelly-like soap from a tin butter can. “Well, I don't know. I s'pose folks will look for something fancy, seein' you're givin' the dance. Mis' Beckman sets herself up as a shinin' example on cake, and she'll come just t' be critical an' find fault, if she can. If I can't bake all around her the best day she ever seen, I'll give up cookin' anything but spuds. She had the soggiest kind uh jelly roll t' the su'prise on Mary last winter. I know it was hern, fer I seen her bring it in, an' I went straight an' ondone it. I guess it was kinda mean uh me, but I don't care--as the sayin' is: 'What's sass fer the goose is good enough sass fer anybody'--an' she done the same trick by me, at the su'prise at Adamses last fall. But she couldn't find no kick about MY cake, an' hers--yuh c'd of knocked a cow down with it left-handed! If that's the best she c'n do on cake I'd advise 'er to keep the next batch t' home where they're used to it. They say't 'What's one man's meat 's pizen t' the other feller,' and I guess it's so enough. Maybe Mame an' the rest uh them Beckman kids can eat sech truck without comin' down in a bunch with gastakutus, but I'd hate t' tackle it myself.” The Little Doctor gurgled. This was a malady which had not been mentioned at the medical college. “Where shall we set the tables, if we dance in the dining room?” she asked, having heard enough of the Beckmans for the present. “Why, we won't set any tables. Folks always have a lap supper at ranch dances. At the su'prise on Mary--” “What is a lap supper?” “Well, my stars alive! Where under the shinin' sun was you brought up if yuh never heard of a lap supper? A lap supper is where folks set around the walls--or any place they can find--and take the plates on their laps and yuh pass 'em stuff. The san'wiches--” “You do make such beautiful bread!” interrupted the Little Doctor, very sincerely. “Well, I ain't had the best uh luck, lately, but I guess it does taste good after that bread yuh had when I come. Soggy was no name for--” “Patsy made that bread,” interposed Miss Whitmore, hastily. “He had bad luck, and--” “I guess he did!” sniffed the Countess, contemptuously. “As I told Mary when I come--” “I wonder how many cakes we'll need?” Miss Whitmore, you will observe, had learned to interrupt when she had anything to say. It was the only course to pursue with anyone from Denson coulee. The Countess, having finished her scrubbing, rose jerkily and upset the soap can, which rolled over and over down the steps, leaving a yellow trail as it went.